Thursday, July 27, 2006

The crowd stood on the touchline is a little discerning, and that is the only reason we keep air-kicking or letting the ball roll between our legs. Because normally we are really good. In a really good way that doesn’t normally attract crowds that is. Things become really odd when it starts to rain and still they don’t disperse. Gradually it dawns on us though: the crowd aren’t watching one of North London’s finest football collectives just ironing out a few glitches in their practise match –because normally we are really good – but are instead looking heavenwards. We pause, curious (and taking any excuse for a breather). And then we see it, leap from one tree to the next. A squirrel monkey!

A number of zookeepers scamper around amongst the throng. They have tied a long thick rope to the trunks of one of the trees, from where it leads back into the zoo. One of the problems with this plan is that they have only managed to get the rope tied about 8 feet up the trunk, whilst the monkey is choosing to occupy the upper branches of the considerably high trees. Another problem is that they keep darting from beneath one tree to the next, following the monkey’s progress above them and making it absolutely clear – in case it wasn’t sure – that they are chasing it. The final problem is that the monkey seems to be having a bloody good time up there.

We resume our match, able to be really good like usual now that we know we aren’t the focus of attention. Nonetheless I raise my game, aware that the monkey has a grandstand view of the pitch.

Two hours later, our match finishes. The monkey still leaps from tree to tree and the zookeepers still mirror it’s movement down below the foliage, clearly out of ideas. I offer to kick the ball at it.